


The Final Act

by Pat_Nussman



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen, PGP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 03:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15282786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pat_Nussman/pseuds/Pat_Nussman
Summary: Just a short and silly PGP with Avon and Tarrant.





	The Final Act

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Originally published (I think) in _Zen and the Art of Rebellion._ Just a short and silly PGP, based on the idea that if Orac really can do anything…well, you'll see…

_Damn_ Avon!

Clumsily, Tarrant rolled over onto his side, trying to shake off the effects of the stun. He followed Academy procedure, cautiously flexing the awakening muscles in his arms and legs while taking quick, shallow breaths.

Luckily, no one had noticed him. The troopers stared, as if fascinated, at the bloody body sprawled out on the floor ... the grotesquely smiling, nearly insensate man straddling the dead flesh. Obviously, discipline had fallen to a new low in the Federation military.

As for Avon ... well, after all, the man had never pretended to military training. Besides which, Tarrant could appreciate a wish to go out--if one must indeed do so--in style.

But Tarrant fancied that he--and Avon--had a few good years still in front of them, if he worked fast. Cautiously, painfully, he raised his arms, massaging the muscles of his jaw and mouth. Time was of the essence. If Avon decided to fire ... if the troops came out of their stupor ...

He fumbled for the gun, on the floor just within his reach. Avon's smile became more fixed ... the troopers began to stir ...

"Avon--" His voice hardly sounded human, but it was loud, which was the whole point. "--down!" 

Without a word, without a glance, Avon took a dive, landing half on the floor, half on the body of Blake. Every trooper fired, with laudable accuracy. Seven shots rang out ... six troopers fell, bleeding, to the ground. _Those_ guns killed, quite efficiently. Tarrant finished off the seventh trooper with a projectile from Dorian's marvel-gun.

Primitive, of course, but oddly satisfying.

Finally, Tarrant scrabbled to his feet. His muscles weren't obeying him entirely, but he was in better shape than Avon, who slowly pulled himself to a sitting position, slithering in the split blood. Back at FSA, they'd have dragged the man into a classroom as a living, breathing example of classic Combat Stress Syndrome. Still, Avon followed orders well; he hadn't seen that fast a belly-flop in years.

"How?" Avon spoke with difficulty. Blood covered his face, nearly sealing his lips. Tarrant searched the inside of his tunic for the ration water he always carried ... even near the point of death, Avon would want to be clean.

"How what?" Then he glanced at the unconscious bodies of his crewmates. "Oh, that. It was in the water."

Avon tore off a bit of his tunic's inner lining and dabbled water on the square of cloth. His glare said more than words could express.

"At FSA," Tarrant explained patiently. Like nearly everyone else at FSA, he'd embarked on his military career as a seven-year-old cadet, his reflexes and aptitude eventually thrusting him into the elite pilot-training program. "You want your troops to be up and about, right? So they fed a chemical into the water to make us resistant to most stuns, so recovery would be faster."

"And them?" Avon nodded to the other three.

Tarrant sighed. "A couple hours, maybe." His ribs didn't feel up to the task of dragging unconscious bodies, but this was probably not the safest of locales in which to linger. "Where did you hide Orac?"

"The hanger."

Tarrant took Dayna, Avon took Vila. Both puffed and lugged Soolin, who by that point seemed heavier than the other two put together. Tarrant arranged them artistically with their heads pillowed on each other. Very touching and probably the closest they'd been to one another in months.

Avon knelt mid-hanger beside one of the mottled square tiles that made up the launch surface, prying at the edges with his fingernails. "Are you sure Blake betrayed us?" His voice sounded infinitely weary, with only the slightest trace of danger. The trace would be enough, Tarrant knew.

"A little suspicious the Federation showing up that way, wouldn't you say?" Tarrant knelt on the opposite side of the tile; he could feel the slight looseness under his fingers. "On the other hand, the troops did kill Deva. I'm not sure, anymore." He looked up, the parody of a smile twisting his lips. "But if you really feel you must kill me ..." He lifted his brows. "Good luck."

A slight, self-mocking smile crossed Avon's face, then faded. "No. I've killed enough friends for today."

Friends? Well, that was an admission. He wondered if Avon would even remember it once he'd had a week's sleep. Without responding, he worked his bit of the tile loose and together, they pushed the heavy synthetic aside. Orac lay snugged in a hollow near Avon, no doubt thinking deep electronic thoughts.

"Well, Orac's safe, anyway."

"For what?" Avon's voice slurred, as if some power cable had become disconnected in his mind. "Tarrant, I've tried everything. New weapons, new alliances, even Blake. We can't beat them and they won't let us run forever." He covered his face with his hands.

No doubt he thought the emotion genuine, the thought logical, but Tarrant recognized the deep fatigue of a mind trained to science rather than to warfare. "Avon ..."

The other man lifted his hands and shook his head impatiently, almost angrily. "Well, you're the military genius among us, Tarrant -- can you see an alternative to total defeat?"

Tarrant froze. Of course. He'd been so busy harrying Avon, challenging Avon and--he admitted it now, if only to himself--wanting to impress Avon, that he had ignored the obvious. From childhood, Avon had attended the Science Academy, as he himself had grown up in the FSA. However long Avon had fought Blake's revolution, he was still a _civilian._

All at once, Tarrant agreed with every accusation of stupidity that Avon had ever flung at him. It was obvious ... so damned obvious.

"Actually," he said unsteadily, "I do." Tarrant stared at Orac. He had assumed that Avon, the computer expert who knew Orac's capabilities so thoroughly, had already tried and failed. That some arcane circuitry prevented Avon from taking the obvious step.

But Avon was a _civilian._ He didn't know.

"Supply lines." Tarrant mumbled. "Communications. Computer-controlled weaponry. Transport for troops. Military offices, for God's sake."

"What?" He had Avon. Something like the old intelligence flickered behind the dulled dark eyes. He pulled Orac's key from his tunic, looking numbly from it to Orac to Tarrant.

"Tarial cells. Star One was built without them, but nearly everything else ..." It was a strategist's dream. And they had ignored the implications for two years. Tarrant almost strangled at the thought. "I suggest we start by locking all the government officials in their offices ... say undersecretary and above. Let's make sure of Sleer's location in particular."

"We can hold the government hostage. We can demand any terms we want."

Tarrant nodded. He could hardly take it in, going from hunted fugitive to revolutionary victor in the space of a breath. "You'll have to program it."

Avon turned the key between his fingers in an old, habitual gesture Tarrant recognized. He'd returned to himself, whatever that might be. "And you'll have to put together the strategy." Avon hesitated, then smiled. "Here, you'd better take this."

Puzzled, Tarrant accepted the key. "Why?"

"I believe it's traditional," Avon drawled, "for the _officer_ to initiate action."

Tarrant accepted the key, plugging it in and listening absently to Orac's high electronic hum. For the first time in two years, they were a team. And for the first time, they had the chance--no, the probability--of success. There had to be a moral there somewhere.

He pulled out a sheet of plasteen and began to scribble furiously. When the others awoke, no doubt Dayna and Soolin could help with the weaponry end. Vila might even contribute.

After all, the faster they won, the faster they'd have access to the President's private drinks dispenser.


End file.
